


Memories

by WorshipedWaterRock



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:42:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4811930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorshipedWaterRock/pseuds/WorshipedWaterRock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson sits at home, regretting not being able to help when Sherlock needed him most</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories

AN- Alright, I am so very sorry about this. I will go drag my empty, soulless, husk of a body to hell where it belongs after this note.

Warnings: Character Death. I wrote this and I cried. I rarely, if ever, find myself crying. Maybe I just cried more because it came from my own self so my heart was ripped out more easily.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did, I wouldn’t be resorting to fanfiction. (Or maybe I would! Maybe I am!)

Good luck, and please R&R. I dont normally like asking people to do it but I recently took a huge hit to my confidence and it hurts so bad, so, yeah. R&R. I even take hate, so long as you tell me what you didn’t like so i can try and get better at it.

Also, this is NOT, I repeat, NOT beta’d.

End of note. 

 

 

Watson sat on the couch, head bowed, looking uncomfortable in the somber black suit he wore. In his hands rested the small, square pillow that depicted the british flag. He remembered this from their first meeting, his unintentionally rude comment. How Sherlock had seemed to take only a very small amount of offense, but offense nonetheless.

Oh god. Sherlock. Watson blinked back tears as he thought of the man. Of what had happened. His vision blurred and blackened as he went back to that night.

 

He walked out into the pool, the reflected light from the pool wavering on the walls. The explosives weighed him down.

 

He spoke to Sherlock, his voice soft as he repeated what he was told, word for word. “Evening. This is a turn up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

Watson saw the second of confusion, and the second of betrayal, cross Sherlock’s face just before realization dawned on him. “John, what the hell?” The words had an undertone of accusation, vicious and unhappy. 

 

Watson wanted to reassure him, to tell him that he would never leave Sherlock. Instead, he followed orders. “Bet you never saw this coming,” he paused, “What would you like me to make him say next? Gottle o’ gear, gottle o’ gear, gottle o’ g-”

 

“Stop it.” Sherlock’s voice was hard. Watson could tell that he was getting angry.

 

“Nice touch this, the pool. Where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.”

 

“Who are you?”

 

A small, ferret-like man appeared across the pool from the two. His face was pinched, dark. “I gave you my number. I thought you might call. Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?” 

 

“Both.” Sherlock withdrew the gun and pointed it at the man. 

 

“Jim Moriarty. Hi,” At seeing Sherlock’s lack of response, he continued, “Jim? Jim from the hospital? Huh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose that was rather the point.” Sherlock shifted, looking at the red dot on John’s chest. “Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock—just a teensy glimpse—of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you.”

 

“Dear Jim, would you please fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister? Dear Jim, would you please fix it for me to disappear to South America?” Sherlock mimiced.  
“Just so.”

 

“Consulting criminal. Brilliant.” Sherlock sounded breathless, impressed in spite of himself.” 

 

“Isn’t it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will.” His voice turned colder at the last few words.

 

Sherlock cocked the gun. “I did.” he taunted.

 

“You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

 

“Yes you did.”

 

“Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock,” his voice turned sing-songy for a moment. “Daddy's had enough now! I've shown you what I can do. I've cut loose all those people, all those little problems. Even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off. Although. I have loved this. This little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?”

 

“People have died.” 

 

Moriarty turned loud, agitated. “Thats what people DO!”

 

“I will stop you.” Sherlock’s voice was heavy with conviction.  
“No you won’t.”

 

Watson suddenly felt a bad feeling wash over him, like chills, as Sherlock spoke to him. “Are you alright?”

 

“You can talk, Johnny Boy. Go ahead.” Moriarty smirked.

 

Watson nodded imperceptibly at Sherlock.

 

What happened next was over in a flash. Sherlock leapt forwards, pulling the trigger as he knocked Watson to the ground, the sound of the rifle cracking like angry thunder overhead. Watson waited for the searing heat, the flames. 

 

Instead, he felt something warm and wet seeping from the chest of the man on top of him. He saw the blood as it stained the fabric of his jacket. “Sherlock. Sherlock, no, what did you do.” 

 

Pale face turning whiter than usual, Sherlock slowly pushed himself off of his partner, landing on the ground next to his nemesis, their blood mixing. Moriarty was also pale, but instead, his wound was in the middle of his forehead. He had crumpled to the ground lifeless.

 

Sherlock’s voice wavered like the light on the walls did, growing fainter. “G-get the bomb off of yourself, idiot. They wont shoot you now that he’s dead.” 

 

In shock for a moment, Watson did as he asked, dropping the bomb vest into the pool. He sunk to his knees next to Sherlock, his face frantic. He pressed his hands against the wound, putting pressure on it. “Why? Why Sherlock?”

 

“C-couldn’t let him make me a l-liar. I stopped him, didn’t I?’ His eyes grew dimmer and he closed them. They opened again with great effort. “Sorry, John, I didn’t mean for you to get mixed up in this.” His hands closed around Watson’s wrist, softly. Weakly. “Sorry.” Dark eyes drifted shut once more.

 

“Hey. Wait, wait. Sherlock. Come on, Sherlock. Stay with me, wake up.” Watson’s ears were ringing, blocking out the sirens. Amongst the ringing was Sherlock’s voice, soft, laughing. Like he used to.

Now, he buried his face in the pillow, sniffing. As he spoke, his words were muffled by the pillow. “It wasn’t your fault, Sherlock. It wasn’t. I’m sorry.” He didn’t have to worry about Mrs. Hudson seeing him break down. She had gone to visit her sister.

 

He heard a soft chuckle. At first, he brushed it off, thinking he was just imagining it again, like had been, so many of these last few nights. 

 

But then, he heard the voice again. “You’d better not be staining my pillow, John. I still need that.”

 

 

_____________________________________

Haha, I know,I'm sorry. You thought he died. He was originally supposed to but I couldn't do it. I can't crush souls like that. I rarely read things like this anyways. I know, I know. I'll go to hell now.


End file.
